


He Lacks the Courage

by pokeasleepingsmaug



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Complicated Relationships, F/M, Gen, Implied Relationships, Mention of Past Abuse, because I'm so disappointed in who Bjorn has become, mention of injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-06-01 01:13:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15131828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pokeasleepingsmaug/pseuds/pokeasleepingsmaug
Summary: Based off a Vikings RP I joined a while ago that has sadly died.Takes place between 4A and 4B. Bjorn's past comes back to haunt him in the form of Thora, a shield maiden from a neighboring kingdom who bears an uncanny resemblance to the woman who left him so long ago. He deals with it the best way he knows how: running away. But he finds her again in the most unlikely place.





	He Lacks the Courage

The boat rocks to the motion of the small waves and the rowers’ work, the sun paints the sky in luminous pinks and oranges and the waves spark and dance with the color of flames, and usually Thora would love this but tonight it just feels like emptiness. Sassa is stretched out beside her, lying on her stomach and drugged into oblivion, with Arngeir stroking her hair as she drifts in and out of consciousness. Thora sees all this out of the corner of her eye, because she can’t quite bring herself to face it head-on.

She pretends she doesn’t notice when Ubbe settles down beside her, balancing a bowl of water on his lap. He dips a rag into the water and squeezes it, reaches up and starts gently dabbing at the congealed blood on her forehead. “The healer says she’ll be alright. Scarred, but she’ll live,” he offers quietly. “This is a nasty cut,” he continues, inspecting her forehead, brows creasing in the middle. “Are you sure you don’t want to see the healer?”

“You should see a healer,” Bjorn cuts in, standing behind Ubbe with his arms crossed over his chest.

“I wish you’d let me die in that house. I don’t want to owe you anything, you coward,” Thora spits at him, glowering. “Why are you even coming home? Go run away again, Ironside,” she sneers the name at him, and he sighs and runs his hand tiredly over his face.

“Don’t ever say you want to be dead, and you don’t owe me anything,” he tells her quietly, and she’s surprised at the complete lack of fight in him. Leave it to Bjorn to be calm when all she wants to do is scream until her voice gives out. Throughout their entire exchange, Ubbe has been quietly cleaning the myriad cuts and scrapes on Thora’s arms and hands, wiping the dried blood from beneath her broken nose, and freeing her hair from the mass of congealed blood on her forehead. He was so relieved to see her stalking angrily back to the beach, fighting off any pursuing attackers as Bjorn carried Sassa cradled in his arms, that she felt almost guilty for saying she wishes she were dead in his presence. 

It wasn’t until she finally sat down as they rowed away, dropping her weapons by her feet, that she realized how much her entire body ached. There was no way she could have dug herself out of the rubble of the house, but as the flames drew closer she was glad she’d at least thrown Sassa to safety before it collapsed. She could hear her friend screaming like she was underwater, could feel the heat of the fire on her legs and the crushing weight of dusty, dry wood, and when the hand grasped her arm through the rubble she assumed it was a Valkyrie.

When she found herself face to face with Bjorn instead, she threw her axe over his shoulder with a furious scream and was all whirling fists and flying blond hair as she turned on him. He’d only shoved her off, wordlessly, picked up Sassa, and started heading toward the beach. He’d left Kattegat without a word months ago, the last place she expected to see him was saving her life. She knew what he wanted from her, though. She picked up her axe and followed him at a jog, shouting at him and killing anyone in his way every step back to the beach.  
She squirms as Ubbe works on a cut just to the left of her eye. “Hold still, Thora,” he murmurs, one thumb slowly stroking her temple as the other hand cleans the cut. “Almost finished.”

“Ubbe,” she whines, “can’t you tell him to leave?” 

Ubbe glances down, shamefaced. “No. He took command of the ships.” 

Thora doesn’t bother suppressing her groan. “I won’t listen to him.”

“You are such a child, Thora. You could be grateful I saved your life,” Bjorn says, voice finally rising. Thora, never one to back down, can’t resist baiting him again. 

“Should I also be grateful you scared Sassa half to death before you left Kattegat without telling a single soul? Should I be grateful you almost killed your own brother at the harvest feast because he kissed me?”

“You could be grateful I helped you when Vali tried to assault you at the feast,” he reminds her testily. 

“The thing I’m most grateful for is you leaving,” Thora tells him. “For finally taking all that pain and all that rage that you won’t let anyone help you with, and finally maybe trying to deal with it. I thought--during the harvest feast, when you got Vali off of me--I thought maybe we could help each other, and then you left without saying a word and I knew I was wrong.”

“Heal? Heal?” Bjorn explodes. “I can’t even look at you without my heart breaking!”

“How is that my fault?” Thora is distracted by a small groan from her side.

“Can you guys go fight somewhere else?” Sassa slurs. She lifts her head and blinks slowly at them with blown-out pupils and a distant dreaminess on her face. “Just don’t let them kill each other, Ubbe.” Arngeir gently pulls her head back into his lap, and Thora’s stomach twists with guilt. She isn’t strong enough to shield everyone she loves, and sometimes she wishes she’d never left Uddevalla. That she’d just stayed in her brother’s house and let her husband drag her out by the hair when he finally figured out where she was hiding.

She squeezes Sassa’s hand gently before she rises and walks toward the rear of the boat, to where some boatbuilder she doesn’t know is teaching Hvitserk to work the steering oar. It’s strange she’s never met Hvitserk before, but he takes one look at her face and relinquishes the oar to her hands. Thora loves the way it comes alive in her hands, how she can feel the pull of the boat and the push of the ocean, but she’ll never admit aloud with Bjorn at her side that she’s still grateful to be alive. 

“You’ve been unfair to me since the moment I came to Kattegat,” Thora accuses him once she settles the ship. Hvitserk could use some more lessons on this, she thinks.

“You coming to Kattegat was unfair to me,” Bjorn counters. Thora gapes at him without a word, but he doesn’t continue. The steering oar lurches suddenly in her hand, the ship bucking with a sudden large swell, and she concentrates on righting the sleek ship. Ubbe shoulders her gently aside, steps into her spot and takes over the oar. He came out of the raid the best of all of them, glowing with triumph and showing off a new dagger. Underneath all her anger and frustration, she’s proud of him.

She sinks down at his feet with a sigh and leans against his leg, wrapping an arm around his knee to anchor herself to him, and presses a soft kiss just above his knee. He’s always been an anchor, ever since she first came to Kattegat and scared away a deer he was hunting in the forest. But if he’s always been an anchor, Bjorn has always been a storm, and right now she feels like her lungs are filling with water. 

She doesn’t have to tell Bjorn what’s happened since he left Kattegat, she can tell he’s guessed by the fury smoldering in his eyes. “Not now, brother,” Ubbe insists, ever the peacekeeper, and Thora squeezes his calf gratefully. 

“Since when?” Bjorn asks, voice low and raw.

“After you left. A few months now,” Ubbe answers, so Thora doesn’t have to. She’s leaning heavily against him, he wishes she could sleep but knows she’ll probably be awake all night, minding the ship or caring for Sassa. One hand dips down to absently stroke her hair before the ship demands all of his attention for a moment. It remains quiet even after the ship is steadied, and he feels like he can finally breathe a sigh of relief as Thora finally stretches out, picking at the large cut on her scalp. 

“Sleep now. We can talk about this in the morning,” Bjorn decides, turning away.

Ubbe’s never been prouder as Thora calls out at his retreating back, “there’s nothing to talk about.” Bjorn’s shoulders tense beneath his shirt, but he doesn’t turn to face them and he doesn’t reply. He’s never had the strength, not since Thorunn, and just because he would gladly trade his life for Thora’s if given the chance, doesn’t mean he has the courage to look her in the eye. He thinks maybe Thora was right all along, months ago, when she told him pain can twist a person into someone unrecongnizable, and suddenly he misses the brother he worshipped as a child. 

The boat rides the waves like a bird on the wind, the steering oar alive in his hand like a restless horse, and Thora’s steady breathing at his feet, but Ubbe’s never felt so numb.


End file.
